the grass is an oasis
by billiespiper
Summary: to live is the rarest thing in the world. most people exist, that is all / after season four, multiple pairings


**title**: the grass is an oasis

**summary**: to live is the rarest thing in the world. most people exist, that is all / end of season four, multiple pairings

**disclaimer**: i don't own the marvelous show SKINS, the summary, which is a quote by oscar wilde, or the little song lyrics which are from "streets of gold".

**a/n**: eh, sorry. first- every single section is based on a song from the album "streets of gold" by 3oh!3, which is amazing ashdaslfhla. i just set it on shuffle and there you go. and yeah i didn't want to write separate parts for naomi and pandora. sorry if i made thomas seem like he hated pandora… because i do. didn't mean to be biased there. this is AFTER freddie's death :( :( :( if some of this stuff is wrong, it's because i refuse to watch the last few episodes of season four (can't. see. freddie. die)

also; this is my first skins fic and i haven't read any in the fandom so sorry if i'm unknowingly copying/making cliches.

.

there are seven stages of death.

(it's a shame to say none of them reach any)

_._

_i count the empty bottles up on the bar_

_but i give up, i can't count that far._

_;;_

**cook**

it's quiet. unnaturally quiet.

but, then again, that's how things always are with effy. you're at a diner, and her food is untouched.

you've ordered the check by the time she speaks.

"i see dead people." she tells you, eyes locked on the burger in front of her. "well, not really people plural. but freddie. i see freddie."

you can feel a shiver slide down your spine. it's been one month, two weeks and three days since she's mentioned freddie.

(not that you're counting)

"i'm sure you do." you tell her through a mouthful of food. she looks at you, cocking her head and smirking just a tiny bit.

"you don't believe me." she says, dragging her fork against her plate, making an obnoxious screech.

"ghosts don't exist." she laughs, her lips stretched tight past her teeth.

"how would you know?"

"they just... don't."

the smile is gone from her face, (that's alright, it was too fake and you didn't like it anyway) and you can see her jaw tremble for half a second.

you reach my hand out to touch hers, but she darts away, and she's _that_ effy again, not effy at all, but elizabeth stonem. skittish and shy.

"effy..."

"don't _call_ me that." she hisses, eyes narrowed into watery feline slits. "i've told **you,** effy died with freddie. I'm elizabeth."

when she talks like that; all ominous and foreboding, you would do anything do get away from her. but then, when she's being _her_, the effy she was before dr. foster, your world slips back into place. the boy with the dashing smile and striped sweater is alive, and you're not in jail [bad boy, cook, bad boy]. it's a sliver of normal.

(_hasn't anybody told him normal doesn't exist?)_

.

_these lazy days are way too long like razor blades under your tongue_

_the city lights will burn you down or build you up high above the ground._

_;;_

**katie**

new york, with skyscrapers and streets of gold seems like the perfect fit for you. girls with platinum blonde hair and high cheekbones and bodies just _designed _for the runway strut past chanel & saks.

you think that it's perfect.

a week in and you've got a job. stella mccartney. you try to forget about your sister [**naomi tainted everything**], but it's hard when you see your face everyday. identical.

you end up smashing all the mirrors in your flat.

everyone here is _skinnier_ and _prettier_ and _better_. there's competition. you go a day without eating, then break down and have a bowl of oatmeal. emily always loved oatmeal.

{fatfatFAT}

the finger goes down the throat, the gag reflux hits, your breakfast is back where it belongs- out of your stomach.

it's easiest this way- no working out or hard labour.

the best thing about being a model are the parties, you think. loud cries, a faint stereo drum, rich men with sweet smelling cigars.

thick, bitter, amber liquid. another shot, one more, got to keep up appearances **darling**.

paychecks and proud smiles almost make up for pounding hangovers and stomach aches deep within your tummy.

slamslamslam. fire rips through your throat, the frosted glass is back on the table, more drink in it.

[more? i don't think i want anymore.

just do it. it'll be fun]

a joint is passed around, the end burning sunset colors, red orange yellow, so beautiful.

the best thing about weed? it makes you forget. it makes naomi's face blur, makes freddie's funeral a distant memory

(oh, god. a crying effy, silent jj, stony faced thomas)

-and then it's rushing back. you can't escape the fucking past, katie-kins.

you just want _perfect_.

(_hasn't anybody told her perfect doesn't exist?_)

.

_kiss kiss on the lips of the apocalypse_

_ring ring, burn the cell. this is love 2012_

;;

**jeremiah jones**

freddie's gone. he's really gone. your best friend, the third musketeer.

it's all because of effy. effy and her stupid fucking issues. she had to go and fucking ruin it all, didn't she?

no, it's not her fault.

(who's is it, then?)

when you get home from his funeral, sweat stains the back of your suit. you've never screamed so loud in your life. the first thing to go is your **stupid** airplane models. they fall to your feet, wings broken off and nose smashed beneath the toe of your shoe. then, your mobile hanging above your bed. god, that's for a baby. a fucking baby.

just like you.

you tear the sheets because emily was in that bed, and emily's sister is katie and katie slept with freddie and _fuck_ it all goes back to him.

there's a pocket knife lying discarded on the floor. you drag it through the mattress, raking it through down comforting and springs.

"SHIT!"

you hope your mom comes up. you want to [cry;get screamed at;let go]. you want to feel.

you haven't felt since freddie died.

smashing your cell against the floor, you grin with some twisted delight as a battery and green memory chips fall out. if you wanted to, you could reassemble it all.

instead, you grab a hammer and pound it to bits.

all you want is your innocence back.

(_hasn't anybody told him innocent doesn't exist?_)

.

_baby girl i gotta know how you dance like that _

_cause you're putting on a show_

;;

**effy**

it just isn't the same. of course you're still _effy_, unreachable, unreadable, silent.

but it's just _different_.

strobe lights beat down on skintight dresses- you've been losing weight like wildfire. before (before baseball bats and crazy psychiatrists), you were flawless under spotlights. now, they make your knees weak; make you sweat.

the feel of meaty hands running down your sides and over your hips makes your shiver despite the heat of bodies compacted together.

you feel dirty, but there's really no other way to forget.

there's those times when you're **effy** again.

quiet smirks, razor sharp blue eyes, elegant rings of smoke furling from your lips.

then, you become **elizabeth**.

polite, smart, thoughtful.

you hate it. this switching, flipflopping. but how else are you supposed to deal with the pain?

[with drugs and partying and unfamiliar hands]

you want tony back. where's your big brother? you cared for him after his accident, and he doesn't even come back when your boyfriend is dead.

well, fuck him. he calls once, (just once) a week after the funeral.

"eff?" his voice resounds in your ear, and you cringe away from the phone.

"...yeah?"

"i'm sorry i couldn't be there. really, i am. just- university is a bitch and oh god, michelle's pmsing, and everything really sucks here."

you want to crush the phone.

"_screw_ you." you hiss into the receiver.

"effy…"

"you have no _fucking_ idea what's going on in my life-" your voice breaks, and you curse yourself for letting it. "so just leave me alone and go back to your stupid girlfriend."

the dial tone rings in your ear long after you've clicked end.

you want to take it back. it's too late, now isn't it?

you just want love.

(_hasn't anybody told her love doesn't exist_?)

.

_dance with the devil, don't be shy_

_nothings going to stop us, we can't die_

_;;_

**emily&naomi**

after prayers and tired, lace covered eyes, there's silence. the hum of the church air conditioner drowns out naomi's labored breathing to your left. you slip a hand into hers, and her fingers tighten to much that you loose circulation.

the two of you leave right after his body is carried out by pallbearers. heat and perspiration cause your dress to cling too tight to your skin. you feel like everything about you is not right, not right. you want to shed your clothing and let the jets of a showerhead beat down on your back.

you see katie leave through the back door in the corner of your eye. you make a move to talk to her, but naomi tugs on your hand and leads you out onto the granite steps.

"it's okay to cry, emily." she tells you. you look at her fleetingly, then back to your strappy stilettos.

"i know that," you tell her. "do you?"

she just fucking sits there all the time, quiet and emotionless. in some ways, she reminds you of effy. built up behind all these layers.

"you don't think i've cried?" she asks, voice hitching unnaturally. "i fucking cried, emily."

you've been too harsh, you think. too mean so close after the grieving period.

"i'm sorry, naomi, i didn't mean-"

"stop _fucking_ apologizing. that's all you do, isn't it? say 'i'm sorry' and expect it all to be better? well it won't be. 'sorry' won't bring freddie back."

she cringes as soon as she's spoken.

"you don't think i know that? i'm just trying to make things better. i just want things to be how they were before. i just want you, effy, jj, everyone to happy. so stop fucking patronizing me for saying sorry!"

the words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, but you don't take them back.

when your hand lands on the knots in her spine, a shiver runs down her body and naomi twists away.

you just want them all to be happy again.

(_hasn't_ _anybody told her happy doesn't exist_?)

.

_i'm not the one who wants to hurt you_

_better find somebody else to get a hold of yourself._

_;;_

**pandora&thomas**

she doesn't eat doughnuts anymore. you buy her a big box (jelly-filled, sprinkled, frosted). she takes one look and begins to cry.

and it starts all over again. sometimes, you wish you'd never come to bristol.

sometimes, you wish you'd never met a girl with metallic blue eyeliner and blonde pigtails. she cries on your shoulder, just fucking cries all the time.

you cry too. late at night when her breathing is steady and slow next to you, you let tears slip down on the twisted sheets.

and sometimes, you hate her. there. you've said it. you hate her endless happiness and you hate that cheeky little smile with squinty eyes. you hate that you let her cheat and you took her back.

but you can't leave her. you can't leave the smiles and pearly pink lipstick staining your skin.

after the funeral, she's unnaturally quiet. you think about how pandora shouldn't _be_ silent. she should be bright & cheery and a spot of sunshine.

(_the science teachers always said the sun would explode one day_)

you wonder; do you even want to go to harvard anymore? this scholarship for running {day after day, mile after mile until your legs ache} doesn't seem like a present. the shine has worn off, just like pandora.

freddie's maimed everyone. pandora doesn't sparkle. effy doesn't smirk. emily doesn't give you that sweet little grin. katie doesn't tell you you're a loser.

everyone's different and you don't like it all.

you just want your ignorance back.

(_hasn't anybody told him ignorance doesn't exist?_)

.

**nothing's going to stop us we can't die.**

.


End file.
